


Duty and Dessert

by china_shop



Category: due South
Genre: Case Fic, Fic, M/M, Meringue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-22
Updated: 2010-09-22
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:24:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Okay, I'm here. What's the emergency?" Ray stood on the Consulate doorstep in his raincoat, with raindrops in his hair, all business except for how he turned red when he met Fraser's eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Duty and Dessert

**Author's Note:**

> With much gratitude to Miriam for a long-ago beta on part of this, when it was in a different guise, and to sageness and lamentables for beta now.
> 
> For the ds_flashfiction Dirty Challenge.

"Okay, I'm here. What's the emergency?" Ray stood on the Consulate doorstep in his raincoat, with raindrops in his hair, all business except for how he turned red when he met Fraser's eye. Given this was the first time they'd seen each other since last night, when they'd finally breached long-standing and seemingly insurmountable professional and social barriers and come together, Fraser was certain his own face was equally flushed.

"Thanks for coming, Ray." Fraser pulled him inside, acutely aware of the warmth and proximity of his body, and explained in an undertone. "Inspector Thatcher's hosting a dinner party this evening, including among her guests the Chilean ambassador and a Canadian trade delegate who's trying to negotiate a deal to cover the export of various types of canned—"

Ray gripped Fraser's upper arm through the serge and circled his free hand in the air. "Yeah, yeah. Cut to the chase."

Fraser forced himself to focus on the conversation. "It seems that, contrary to his smug assertions this morning, Diefenbaker hasn't yet recovered from Turnbull's duck à l'orange."

Ray screwed up his face and leaned even closer. "Sick wolf?"

"Very much so, I'm afraid. " Fraser ran his tongue across his lower lip and tried not to contemplate the taste of Ray's neck just below his ear or, even more tempting, the possibility of dragging Ray down the hall to his office and securing the door with a chair. "If he's still poorly tomorrow, I'll take him to the vet," Fraser continued, "but I predict it will clear up soon. Wolves have very robust constitutions." Dief grumbled from his bolt hole beneath the desk, and Fraser said, "You should be glad there's medical treatment within reach. If we were stuck on an ice floe, I dread to think what would happen."

Dief moaned and farted loudly.

"Oh dear." Fraser met Ray's gaze. "The smell is causing the caterers some consternation. And the Inspector's visiting her coiffeuse, but she's due back in less than an hour."

Ray closed his eyes and sighed theatrically. "Okay, I got it. Jeez, you sleep with a Mountie and you pay and pay and pay—"

"Thanks, Ray." Fraser clapped his hands to his thighs in a hearty effort to keep them to himself. "Right. Well. I should—" He stared blankly at the wood-paneled walls, getting his bearings.

"Set up for the schmooze and booze," Ray prompted him.

"Yes, of course. The dinner party." Fraser took a fortifying breath. "I'll see you later tonight?"

Ray ducked his head. "That you will. Don't let the Ice Queen keep you after school."

"I'll do my utmost to ensure the evening passes without incident." Fraser looked around, ascertained the hallway was clear and gave Ray a quick kiss.

The grip on Fraser's arm tightened and Ray's mouth opened under his immediately, and that in and of itself was so intoxicating that things might have got entirely out of hand, despite their location, the malodorous wolf at their feet and Fraser's best intentions, except at that very moment—

A prolonged shriek pierced the air.

Fraser pulled back. "Turnbull! In the dining room!"

"With the candlestick," said Ray, cryptically, as they ran to see what was afoot.

It was quite a scene. Turnbull stood at the head of the elegantly set table, his apron and chef's hat askew. He was holding a large pan of meringue and shrieking in cacophonous outrage, while on the other side of the room, the notorious Canadian jewel thief Beverly Beaumont — immediately recognizable from dozens of RCMP Most Wanted lists, even with her wig and the fake Marilyn Monroe mole — was standing on a wooden dining chair, wielding a utility knife on a newly installed portrait of the Queen. The blade sliced through Her Majesty's ear.

"Not the Queen! Not the Queen!" Turnbull set the meringue on the edge of the table and hurled himself between the knife and the painting. "Take me instead!"

Beaumont leaped down from the chair with her knife at the ready. She brandished it in Turnbull's face. She was tall and sturdy, and although in theory Turnbull should have had the upper hand, Fraser knew he couldn't be relied on to keep his head.

Ray drew his gun, but Fraser stepped into his line of sight. "I don't think you've thought this through, ma'am," he said. "There are two RCMP officers on the premises besides myself, not to mention a sick wolf, a floral delivery person and an unknown number of catering staff."

She glared at him. "Shut up! I know exactly what I'm doing, and I'm not letting any of you stop me. Not now." She lunged at Turnbull, performed a complicated Taekwondo maneuver and took him in a neck lock, her knife pressed against his throat.

"Do what you want to me," said Turnbull. "Just leave Her Royal Highness untouched!"

"Fraser, get out of the way," growled Ray, elbowing him aside, but Fraser shook his head.

"Inspector Thatcher will be livid if the table settings are damaged," he said under his breath, "and you're not wearing your glasses." He ignored Ray's muttered oath and spoke up again. "I'm sure you're right. However, unless you have at least two accomplices, the odds are considerably stacked against you," he told Beaumont, "I can't fathom why you didn't wait until later, after we'd all gone home."

Beaumont growled. "I have to baby-sit for my cousin," she snapped. "Don't get me started! I told her I was busy, but she's got a date with this guy from her gym and— Shut up!" In the blink of an eye, she dropped her knife on the floor, pulled a small ladies' pistol from her jacket and aimed it at Fraser.

"Yeah," snapped Ray. "Shut up, Fraser. And you, lady thief, you point that thing at me or I'll kick you in the head."

Beaumont swung the gun towards Ray.

"No," said Fraser, quickly. "This man is a detective with the Chicago Police Department. If you hurt him, I assure you you'll be in hot water before you can say Tsiigehtchic." He glanced sideways, calculated the risk, and plucked Ray's gun from his hands. "Besides, Ray, you're not legally permitted to carry a firearm in Canada."

"I'm going to kill you," said Ray. "With my bare hands, if I have to."

For a moment, Fraser thought Ray was talking to Beaumont, but the fury in his voice indicated otherwise.

"Nonetheless—" Fraser pointed the gun at Beaumont to distract her, and gave Turnbull a swift nod.

Turnbull simultaneously shoved Beaumont's pistol aside and jabbed her in the solar plexus with his elbow, causing her to double over, winded. Which would have been exemplary except that Beaumont's finger convulsed on the trigger, shooting out the chain of the chandelier, which landed on the table with a God Almighty crash, devastating the table settings.

Beaumont staggered into Turnbull and caught him off-balance, and after a brief but heated tussle, they both fell forward onto what remained of the floral centerpiece, sending the last of the crystal and candlesticks sailing through the air, not to mention Turnbull's dish of meringue, which rocketed upwards, rotating majestically, and then — inevitably — showered down on Fraser and Ray and half the room besides.

Once the dust and meringue had cleared, Ray handcuffed Beaumont and Fraser read her her rights. Then Ray turned on Fraser, glaring. "That was not buddies."

"Ray, I could hardly let her shoot you. You're my partner." Fraser injected the word with all the meaning he could muster.

"But I'm supposed to stand by while you commit suicide by Canadian art vandal?" Ray threw up his hands, shouting to be heard over the sound of Turnbull's commentary on the state of the portrait. "And grabbing my gun right out of my hands, that is the last straw. That is so— so— you!

Fraser swallowed the justifications on the tip of his tongue, knowing they'd only serve to infuriate Ray further. He and Ray stared at each other for a long moment, Ray vibrating with exasperation and covered in meringue. Fraser returned the sticky firearm to his custody with an apologetic grimace, and Ray took it and turned away. He kicked the wall twice — hard enough to make Dief bark and come running — and then shook his head and turned back, his face easing into resignation. "Christ, you make me _crazy_!"

"I know." The wry affection in his tone was reassuring, and Fraser lowered his voice. "Ray—"

But Turnbull's loud lamentations were too much to bear. Fraser touched Ray's shoulder in what he hoped was an eloquent gesture of regret and promise, then strode over and grabbed Turnbull by the arm and shook him. "You will cease that racket at once!"

Turnbull's howls subsided immediately. "Yes, sir."

Fraser released him, leaving a partial sugary handprint on the arm of his tunic. "I'm sure we can have the painting repaired," he said. "Assuming the Inspector permits us to continue working here."

"Yeah," drawled Ray. "It's a clean cut. It'll heal. Besides, I know a guy." Fraser couldn't tell if that was sarcasm or a genuine offer.

* * *

"Nearly a hundred and fifty thousand Canadian dollars worth of uncut diamonds. Beaumont smuggled them into the country inside the portrait using the diplomatic mail. She's violated innumerable laws and regulations, not to mention the damage to Her Majesty's—"

Ray patted his arm. "It's okay. It was just a painting, not the real thing." His temper had subsided during the Inspector's tirade, and he now seemed disarmingly amused by the whole affair.

"Nonetheless." Fraser took a deep breath. "You're right, of course. It wasn't even a particularly good likeness." He made himself sit back against the drop sheet they'd borrowed from the Consulate. "Anyway, Ms. Beaumont's in custody and I am, once again, in the Inspector's black books."

"She can't blame you for the baked Alaska!"

"You'd be surprised," Fraser said, but Ray's indignation was comforting. "It's not important. I'm sure the caterers will do an excellent job of improvising dining arrangements in the Inspector's office. And at least I've been dismissed for the evening."

A grin flickered across Ray's face. "Don't know why she did that. With the serge and the white meringue, you look kinda festive."

"As do you," said Fraser, softly, his attention drawn back to here, now and the possibilities of the evening ahead. "Extraordinarily edible, as a matter of fact."

Ray's smiled faded, and he licked his lips. The pulse point at the base of his throat fluttered visibly. "Hold that thought. I'm not messing up the car, especially not with a sick wolf in the back."

Ray put on a burst of speed and Dief grumbled to himself self-pityingly.

* * *

They barely made it inside the door of Ray's apartment before Fraser's control snapped, and he reeled Ray in and licked his sugar-sweet neck. Ray's coat and the sticky drop-cloth fell to the floor and were forgotten. And though Fraser was dimly conscious he should tend to Dief, salvage as much of his uniform as possible and protect Ray's furnishings — perhaps they should shower first — the hot skin under his mouth, laced with hints of meringue, and Ray in his arms, strong and equally hungry — these were things Fraser had no interest in relinquishing.

Dief sloped into the kitchen, and Fraser tore his mouth from Ray's. "I should—"

"Water dish is still there from last night," said Ray, and hauled him close, and Fraser went. At this rate, Dief wouldn't have to wait long anyway.

Last night had been fumbling and careful, full of stop-starts and non-verbal negotiations, and Fraser's arousal had been mixed with both wonder and embarrassment. This, though — this was raw need, and when Ray caught his mouth and thrust his tongue between Fraser's lips, there was no room for thought.

"Driving me fucking crazy in more ways than one," Ray muttered, fumbling with the fastenings of Fraser's pants — not taking the time to deal with the tunic or even the lanyard first. And Fraser would have helped, but his hands were occupied mapping the contours of Ray's back and neck and, beneath his jeans, his rear.

Ray pushed hard, backing Fraser against the door with a thud. And then Ray's hand sought and found. Fraser groaned at his touch, knees locking to keep him upright.

"Pay and pay and pay," murmured Ray against Fraser's mouth and sank abruptly to his knees.

His lips on Fraser's erection made Fraser exclaim aloud, and it took a few seconds for him to realize that the tunic was impeding Ray's attentions. Fraser yanked it open, heedless of the buttons, and leaned back against the door in his suspenders, his pants around his knees, feeling unutterably debauched and grateful and increasingly oblivious to everything but Ray's mouth, Ray's eyes seeing him, Ray's hands taking shameless liberties, touching him more intimately than Fraser had ever dreamed.

Excitement pulsed through him, and he closed his eyes, helpless in the face of such overwhelming pleasure. He held his breath and struggled for control, and when he was forced to exhale, heat spiked at the base of his spine and, with Ray's wordless encouragement, Fraser pushed forward, the movement ramping up all sensation until the room blurred, and his orgasm overtook him, consuming him utterly.

Before he'd collected his wits, Ray was there, holding him, mouthing his jaw, kissing him salty sweet and urgent.

Fraser lost himself in the moment, glorying in it, and then Ray shifted his stance and the insistent nudge of his erection sent another thrill through Fraser. There was no question Ray wanted him, and Fraser was allowed — he could respond in kind.

Ignoring the state of his clothing and the discomfort of kneeling in his tightly laced boots, he knelt on the drop-cloth and nuzzled Ray, inhaling deeply while he finished unbuttoning Ray's half-open fly. He yanked jeans and the striped shorts beneath out of the way, and Ray's erection, now freed, stuck straight out in invitation. There was no reason to wait. Fraser sucked it as far into his mouth as he could, all his senses focused on the physical act, Ray's hot, velvety skin against his lips and tongue, the taste and the desperate sounds Ray was making.

Fraser pulled back a little, licked his palm and then used his hand to take up the slack as Ray had done on him. It took a few moments but he soon found a rhythm and slid up and down Ray's cock, doing his best to keep his teeth out of the equation. Fraser was already half-hard again.

Too soon, Ray's hand threaded into his hair and tugged in warning, and not long after, Ray bit back a curse and came in his mouth.

Fraser swallowed and was about to get up when Ray crumpled to the floor and slumped into him. "Jesus. I thought you said you never done that before." He sounded dazed and breathless.

"I haven't," said Fraser. "Hadn't."

Ray grabbed him by a suspender and tugged, and they kissed again, tired and messy and replete, still with occasional hints of meringue sweetness.

"Pay and pay?" murmured Fraser in Ray's ear and felt Ray smile against his neck.

"Hey, I'm not saying there aren't some great compensations." He raised his head and nipped Fraser's earlobe. "C'mon. I got a bar of soap with our names on it."

Sharing a shower was an intimacy Fraser had never experienced before, but Ray seemed to take it for granted. Fraser hugged him hard, almost dragging Ray into his lap. "Yes," he said. "All right."

 

END


End file.
